


Against All Probability

by CirrusGrey



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Autistic Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Canon Asexual Character, Childhood Friends, First Crush, First Kiss, Happy Ending, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Time Skips, Trans Martin Blackwood, Undiagnosed autistic character, Updates Weekends, alternate title: how much can I project onto a fictional character in under 50k words, rating is for swears, the friendship is central but the romance is there, tim and sasha are there too but not enough to tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:49:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 20,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28031181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CirrusGrey/pseuds/CirrusGrey
Summary: When Jon is nine, a new kid moves into his neighborhood.When he is promoted to Head Archivist, he still writes to him.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 564
Kudos: 494





	1. Dreams (Prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay I lied I was using the oneshots to bridge the gap while I finished writing another multi-chapter story. Saturday updates continue! (Again!)
> 
> CW for off-screen transphobia from a parental figure in the childhood sections. Martin's mum doesn't play a big role in this story, but she is there, and she is not supportive.
> 
> Also, I am not a binary trans person, and I figured out I was nonbinary as an adult. If I've written anything inaccurate or insensitive about being a binary trans kid, I apologize.
> 
>  _Well the road is windin’ and the road is hard_  
>  _And there's no telling just how far_  
>  _Or how many letters I might send_  
>  _One day you'll walk with me_  
>  _Against all probability_  
>  _I know our paths will cross again_  
>  ~ Josh Ritter, [“Paths Will Cross”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4A5ykvJs_mM)

_ Jon was hiding. He had the perfect spot for it, tucked in the space between the wall of the old shed and the rose bushes. None of the adults in the neighborhood even knew the spot was there, and it was far too small for them anyway. He wasn't even sure if they knew the  _ shed _ was there - the old property at the end of the street was so overgrown that they barely even looked at it, or at least his grandmother didn't, and she was the only adult that mattered. In June, when the roses bloomed, the bushes became an amorphous cloud of white petals concealing everything that hid behind them. _

_ It was a chore to make sure none of the thorns tore his clothes when he wriggled his way under the bushes into the clear space, but it was worth it. Here, he could be completely alone, out of the house so he wouldn't bother his grandmother and hidden away so no one would bother  _ him.

_ Or, at least, so he thought. _

_ Jon was deeply engrossed in a book when it happened. He was nearing the end of his current pile, and it certainly wasn't the best book he'd ever read - standard quest-based fantasy, highly predictable - but it still had his full attention, and he jumped at the sudden intrusion from the real world when a voice spoke up from outside his hideaway. _

_ "Hello?" _

_ Jon frowned, slowly closing the book with a finger between the pages to keep his place. Had that been directed at him? _

_ "Hello? Can you hear me?" _

_ The voice was high, that of a fellow child. Jon didn't recognize it from school, though to be fair he never paid terribly much attention to his classmates. _

_ "Who's there?" he chanced. _

_ "You  _ are  _ there!" The voice was delighted. Jon heard a rustle of fabric and leaves, a huff, and then whoever it was spoke again. "Uh, um... how do I- can I come in?" _

_ Jon considered this. Telling this person where the gap in the branches was would mean this spot would no longer be his alone; then again, if he  _ didn't  _ share that information, it was possible they would run off and tell the adults about him, or, worse yet, stand outside for the rest of the day pestering him. _

_ "Um, there's a gap in the branches right near the wall of the shed. Near the ground. You might get dirt on your clothes. And watch out for the thorns." _

_ "Okay!" More rustling. Jon watched the gap in the branches, and after a moment was rewarded by the sight of a mass of curly hair crawling toward him. It was soon followed by the rest of the figure, and Jon found himself face to face with a wide grin as the intruder scrambled to sit up. _

_ "This is so cool! I've seen you disappear here a few times now, but I thought you were just going in the shed! This is so much better!” _

_ Jon raised an eyebrow. "You're from down the street, aren't you?" _

_ "Oh! Yeah." The kid gave a small wave. "We just moved in a few weeks ago, mum told me to get out of the house and go make friends." _

_ "Oh." Jon wrinkled his nose. That sounded familiar. "Why aren't you doing that, then?" _

_ "I... am?" This was said with a hopeful smile. _

_ Oh. Jon hadn't had anyone try to make friends with him in a long time. All the kids at school had learned better by now. _

_ "Um, okay? What's your name?" _

_ Another smile. "My name's M-" the smile froze, and dropped off. "Um, my name's M. You can call me M. I'm a boy." _

_ The last sentence seemed like a weird add-on to Jon. Then again, a lot of the things his peers said sounded weird to Jon. "Em, like Emmett?" _

_ "No, M, like Michael or Mark or, or Matthew or something." _

_ Jon snorted. "What, you don't have a real name? Are you a spy or something?" _

_ "I have a real name!" the boy - M, Jon supposed - protested. "It's just- it's the wrong one." _

_ The eyebrow rose again. "What's that supposed to mean?" _

_ "It's-" M huffed. "It's a  _ girl's  _ name." He flushed, two spots of color high on his cheeks. _

_ That just confused Jon even more. "Why on earth do you have a girl's name?" _

_ M's eyes went wide, as though Jon were the dumb one for not knowing. "My parents thought I was a girl?" _

_ "Oh." Jon's nose wrinkled as he looked M up and down. He was pale, and plump, and had long, curly hair. There were pink accents on his shorts and shirt. "That's pretty stupid of them." _

_ M stared at Jon for a long moment; then a huge grin split his face, as though Jon had just said the most wonderful thing in the world. _

_ "It is, isn't it?" _

_ "Why don't you just get a new name?" _

_ "Oh." M fidgeted with the hem of his shorts. "I want to. I just don't know what, you know? There's a lot to choose from." _

_ "So why M?" _

_ A shrug, small and shy. "It's my first initial. I think I want to keep it, even without the rest of the name." _

_ Jon nodded, considering this. "It's a good letter." _

_ "Thanks!" M's shoulders scrunched up to his neck as he ducked his head a little. "What's  _ your _ name?" _

_ "It's-"  _ Jonathan,  _ technically. It was what his grandmother always called him.  _ Jonny, _ to the kids at school trying to tease him.  _ Jon, _ in his own head, and in his few faint and faded memories of his mother's voice. "J," he said, because it felt right in the moment. "And I'm a boy too." _

_ "Jay?" _

_ "Yeah. It's  _ my  _ first initial." _

_ "Oh, okay!" M grinned at him. "It's nice to meet you, J!" _

_ He stuck out his hand, and Jon stared at it for a second in shock. M had actually sounded sincere about that. Most people didn't think it was 'nice' to meet him at all. _

_ He hesitated, then reached out to shake M's hand. "It's nice to meet you, too." _

_ He was surprised to find that  _ he  _ was sincere about that, too. _

~~~~~

Jon woke up.

He didn't know why he'd been dreaming of that day; he hadn't seen M since they were kids, and it had been years since he'd even written him a letter. Probably something to do with the stress of being promoted, subconsciously yearning for a simpler time, or something like that.

Speaking of...

He groaned, rolling over in bed to slap at his alarm clock until it stopped shrieking at him. His room was already bright, curtains doing little to block out the early morning light; he didn't bother to turn on the bedside lamp as he dragged himself out from under the covers.

Head to the bathroom, splash some cold water on his face; kitchen, for some microwaved beans on toast and a glass of orange juice. He'd grab tea at work. Then back to the bedroom to yank a brush through his hair until all the knots were gone and he could tie it into a ponytail. Change into work clothes, spend a moment in front of the mirror making sure his tie was on straight. Grab the messenger bag from the chair near the door, double back to unplug his phone from the nightstand, then out the door and on his way to the station within fifteen minutes of his alarm going off.

Healthy? Probably not. But it was a damn efficient way to start the day.

He got to the Institute before anyone else was in, flicking on the lights as he made his way down to the Archives. They were starting to make some progress down there; Jon had finally figured out a game plan for how to start organizing the mess Gertrude had left, and he was feeling a little more confident that he'd actually be able to handle running a department.

Once in his office, Jon discarded the bag next to his desk and sat down to boot up his laptop. There was an email waiting for him from the Institute's tech department: a suggestion on how to fix the problems he'd been having recording statements. There were a couple methods of debugging the recording software that he hadn't tried yet, so he set about changing that immediately, going through one by one and testing the system after each to see if the static had disappeared from the background.

A few minutes later his door creaked open, and he looked up with a frown.

"Martin. You're in early."

Martin blinked at him. "Ah... it's eleven?"

Jon glanced at the clock in the corner of his screen. Shit. "Right. I, uh, lost track of time a little. What did you want?"

"Just fetching tea for everyone, and I wondered if you might want some?"

"No, thank you." Jon looked back at his computer. The program he was loading was still only forty percent done.

"It's really no bother, Jon."

"Hm?" He turned his attention back to the conversation. Martin was still standing in the doorway, leaning forward in a way that probably could have been described as  _ looming  _ if he wasn't almost a head shorter than Jon. As it was, he just looked eager. "Oh, well, yes,  _ thank you, _ but no."

"Right." Martin's mouth dipped down at the corners, and he turned to leave. "Let me know if you change your mind?"

"I won't."

Martin frowned harder as he left the room, and Jon sighed. Tea had become a losing battle between him and Martin, and he really didn't understand why the man pushed it so hard. Jon  _ liked  _ tea, well enough, and - he checked the time again - it was past time he had his morning cup. But he wasn't exactly going to ask Martin to make it  _ for  _ him.

His mind drifted as he waited for the program to load, back to his dream from that morning. Tea had been a  _ thing, _ back when he was a kid, back with M.

The rest of the day passed in relative peace. Tim and Sasha both stopped by to check in about their research, and Martin tried to drag him out to lunch (he declined), but for the most part he was left alone. The suggestions from the tech department didn't work, unfortunately, but he made some progress on narrowing down where the problem originated at least, so he was hopeful he'd have it fixed by the end of the week.

Thoughts of M stayed in his head as he packed his things, as he left the Institute, as he sat on the train on his way back to his flat.

He'd made a promise, once. To always write, no matter how long it had been, if something big changed in his life. He'd told M when he moved to London, sending him his new mailing address. He'd told M when he joined the Institute.

M hadn't written him back, of course, but that wasn't the point.

When he got back to his flat Jon flicked on the lights, dropped his bag on the chair by the door, and sat down at his kitchen table with paper and pen. It took him a moment to start writing. It was... hard, nowadays, to know what to say.

But when the pen hit the paper, the words came freely.

_ Dear M... _


	2. Friends

With a rustle of leaves, Jon was no longer alone. He startled, dropping his book on the ground and pressing himself back against the wall of the shed - only to relax when he recognized the curly head of M as the boy wriggled through the gap in the branches.

"You again?" He didn't bother to keep the surprise from his voice, frowning as M finally made it through and sat up, shaking leaves and white rose petals from his hair.

“O-oh," he said, looking up to meet Jon's eyes and freezing. "Y-yeah, I, um. Do you mind?”

“No, I guess not.” Jon retrieved his book from the ground, marked his place, and set it back down next to him. "I just didn't expect you to come back."

"Why not?"

M was giving him a bright, curious look. Jon frowned harder. "Why  _ did  _ you?"

"Because…" M shrugged. "I like you? You seemed to like me?" The shrug turned into hunched shoulders, head ducked down in embarrassment. "I don't have any other friends?"

Oh. Jon knew  _ that  _ feeling. "Me neither. That's why I didn't expect you to come back."

M looked up again with a shy smile. "Can I be your friend, then?"

"Sure."

M scooted over the ground until his back was pressed against the shed next to Jon. He was quiet for a moment. Jon didn't speak either, trying to remember what  _ friends  _ were supposed to talk about.

"Is that the same book as yesterday?" M asked.

"Yeah." Jon picked it up, showing him the cover. "I'm almost at the end now."

"Did it get any better?"

"Not really." He flicked through the pages, enjoying the light brush of the paper under his fingers as it moved past. "It started this whole secondary plot with the main characters falling in love or something, but it seems like just an excuse to fill some time because they didn't know what else to write."

"Oh." M's fingers skimmed over the ground until he found a loose twig, and he picked it up and started twisting it between his fingers. "I kind of like romance stories."

"Eh." Jon shrugged. "They're good if they're done well, this is just two people who happened to be near each other kissing."

M giggled, and Jon looked at him in surprise. He covered his mouth with one hand, choking back the sound. "Sorry, it's just- I've read books like that and I know  _ exactly  _ what you mean."

Jon smiled back at him, and M took the hand away to give him a wide grin.

"Do you read a lot?"

Jon nodded. "Yeah, all the time. My grandmother always gets me books from the local shops, and we go to the library every few weeks, but that's a bit farther away. She says I'm going to run out of books eventually if I keep reading as fast as I do."

"How fast  _ do  _ you read?"

"Um." Jon held up the book. It was thick and heavy, a few hundred pages at least. "I started this one the day before yesterday."

"Whoa." M's eyebrows rose, creeping up toward his hairline. "That'd take me a month!"

Jon shrugged, embarrassed. "I just read a lot. It's hard to pull myself away once I've started one."

M nodded. "That makes sense. I tend to get distracted and put them down halfway through."

"What do you do instead?"

M looked away. He fiddled with the twig he was still holding, looping one of his shoelaces around it and then tugging it free again. "Um. I spend a lot of time with my mum, when she's up for it. Go for walks outside when she wants me out of the house. I have a little notebook that I'll draw in sometimes, or press flowers between the pages. I dunno." He shrugged. "A lot of things."

Jon nodded. "I used to walk a lot too. My grandmother had to call the police a couple of times to get me back."

"Wait,  _ really?" _ M stared at him, shocked. "Why?"

Jon grinned. He didn't have many opportunities to regale people with tales of his escapades.

"I'd be gone for  _ hours. _ Once, I made it all the way down to the beach, and over to the next pier before they made me come home!"

The enthusiasm didn't leave M's face, but a note of confusion entered it. "Er, how far is that?"

Jon didn't know the exact distance, just that his grandmother had berated him for keeping everyone searching so long to find him. "A long way."

"Wow." M looked genuinely impressed. "How far is the beach, then?"

"Half an hour walking, I think? I don't really know. A while."

"Wow," M said again, and this time it sounded wistful. "I've never been to the beach."

"Really?" Jon was surprised.  _ Everyone  _ had been to the beach around here. "Why not?"

"I've always lived too far away." That wistful look was still firmly in place. "I don't know if mum will take me, though."

"You can come with me." Jon didn't even think before suggesting it. He didn't find the beach particularly enthralling, himself - it was too bright, too sandy, and too full of tourists to be  _ truly  _ fun - but M looked very sad at the idea of  _ not  _ going.

"Oh!" His face brightened for a moment, then fell. "No, I- I shouldn't. Not if it's far away, I should stay close in case mum needs me."

"Is your mum okay?" Jon's grandmother  _ never  _ needed him; even when she was sending the police to find him, it was just because she thought he'd gotten hurt, not because she wanted his help with something.

M's lips twisted in an awkward frown. "She's sick."

"I'm sorry." Jon didn't know what else to say to that.

Another awkward twist, a small shrug. "The sea air is supposed to be good for her. That's why we moved here, her cousin gave us a deal on the rent so we could stay. She never goes out, though. Or opens the windows."

Jon stared at him for a moment. Then he shuffled over, pressing their shoulders together and hoping it would help take the frown off M's face. "Well, let me know if you change your mind. The beach offer remains open."

A smile split across his face, and he nudged Jon's shoulder with his own. "Thanks, J."

It took Jon a moment to remember why he was being called that. Then he smiled back. "You are most welcome, M."


	3. Spiders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Panic attack, and an adapted-for-no-supernatural recounting of the incident with _A Guest for Mr. Spider_ and Jon’s childhood bully.

M brought pillows. They weren’t particularly good pillows, just ratty old things intended to be left out on lawn chairs and survive the rain, but they still softened the ground considerably. Jon had never thought to bring pillows before.

“I’ve been sitting on a root for half the summer, J, I’ve got bruises where no bruises should be,” he said, dragging them behind him as he wormed his way through the small gap in the bushes into the space next to the shed.

“I’m not objecting,” Jon said, though he could feel his eyebrows climbing up his forehead. “Where did you get them?”

“They were in the basement, right next to the furnace. Did I tell you I’ve been looking around down there?”

“You did.” Jon ducked as M swung around, dragging a pillow behind himself and nearly hitting Jon in the head with it. “Watch out!”

“Oh, sorry!” He put it in Jon’s lap instead, then leaned forward on his knees so he could slide the other one under himself. He grinned when he sat back on it. “Much better.”

“My bum thanks you,” Jon laughed, shuffling until he could sit on his own pillow.

“Tell your bum it’s welcome.” M sighed, tipping his head back against the wall of the shed with a peaceful smile. The sunlight filtering through the leaves left a dappled pattern of light and shade on his face. “Oh, this is nice,” he said after a moment.

“I’ve got something to make it nicer.” Jon reached into the bushes next to him, searching for the object he’d hidden there before M arrived. M opened one eye to give him a curious look, then sat up straighter as Jon pulled out a small resealable sandwich bag.

“What’cha got?”

Jon grinned. “Shortbread biscuits. My grandmother had some of her friends over last night and one of them left these behind.”

“Well,  _ that  _ just makes this day perfect.” M took the bag from him, grabbing a biscuit and breaking it in half to split. “Now this feels like a real secret hideaway.”

“Hey, it was a real secret hideaway before,” Jon protested, though without much heat behind it, and took the half-biscuit M was holding out to him.

“I mean, if you can call a hole in a bush a hideaway…” M said, and Jon shoved him lightly on the shoulder.

“Oh, shut up, it worked when it was just me.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you took the spot without a root in it.”

“Well, obviously.” Jon shoved him again, and M shoved back. “Find anything else interesting in the basement?”

They stayed in their hideaway for the better part of the afternoon, as they did nearly every afternoon, talking and laughing and reading over each other’s shoulders from the books that they had brought. It had always been a cosy place, in Jon’s opinion, and had only become more so with someone else to share it.

He was sitting with his head tucked onto M’s shoulder, his own shoulder against the shed and his feet kicked out into the first branches of the rose bush, when he saw it. He didn’t move at first, shock holding him in place as his eyes widened.

Then the terror hit in a powerful wave, and he kicked his feet free from the bushes, pushing himself back and falling into M's lap as he struggled to get away from the wall of the shed and the creature clinging there.

"S-spider, spider, sp-  _ spider!"  _ he stuttered, all coherency gone in the sudden panic.

M gave a disgruntled  _ oof  _ as Jon's elbow connected with his stomach, trying to simultaneously push him off his lap and wrap his arms around him to hold him still.

"Wh- what- J, get  _ off!" _

Jon wrapped his arms around M's torso, clinging to him harder. "Sp- sp- spider, spider, p-please k-kill it,  _ kill it! _ M, spider, kill it-" He barely even registered the words leaving his mouth.

"I'm not going to- hold on-" To Jon's horror, M reached out, scooping the spider off the wall of the shed and into his hands. Jon recoiled, pushing himself off M's lap and into the wall of bushes behind him, trying to get as far as physically possible away from the offending arachnid.

M gave him a weird look out of the corner of his eye, then turned and started working his way out of the gap in the bushes, crawling on his elbows with his hands cupped in front of him. Jon stayed as still as possible, pressed back into the bushes and shaking, until he returned.

"It's gone," he said as soon as he was back. "Left out in the grass,  _ not  _ dead." Then he seemed to notice that Jon was still petrified, and frowned. "Not a fan of spiders, I take it?"

Jon shook his head frantically. "N-n-no, l-last- last s-summer, th- there was-"

"Hey, hey." M reached out to him as his voice continued to tremble, pulling him out of the bushes and back into his own lap in a hug. "Calm down, it's alright."

"R-right," Jon said, twisting his hands in the front of his shirt and trying to bite back the stutter so he could explain. "I-it's just, o-on a book, my, my grandmother got it for me from the, the charity shop, it was, was an exotic sp-species, they said, it-" He took a gasping breath. M squeezed him tighter. "N-not fr- not from here, not from- someone must have brought it over, b-but it was on the book, and he, he took it away, and it, it b-b- _ bit _ him, and, and, and the ambulance, and he, he never came back. They said he was alright but he never came  _ back." _

Jon stopped, gasping for breath. His heart was racing far too fast in his chest, and he could feel his fingers going slightly numb.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay.” M continued to hold him, tucking his face into Jon’s shoulder and rocking them both back and forth as he murmured soft reassurances. Jon clung to him until the shaking bled away, and he was left drained and boneless in M’s lap.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, as soon as he had breath enough to do so.

M pulled back a little to frown at him. “What for?”

“Overreacting.” He inhaled shakily, uncurling from the tight ball he had been in and preparing to get off M’s lap. “My grandmother hates when I make a fuss over spiders.”

M tugged him back into place, settling his chin firmly onto Jon’s shoulder again. “I’d freak out too if I saw a spider right in my face without warning.”

“Oh.” Jon relaxed again. “Thank you. For- for getting rid of it.”

“No problem! Spiders don’t really bother me, as long as I see them coming.” He paused for a moment, frowning. “Why do you hang out in the bushes if you’re scared of spiders?”

“There usually aren’t any spiders here,” Jon muttered. It had happened only once before, since the incident the previous summer. Jon had flailed out, catching the spider with the toe of his shoe and crushing it. He’d avoided the bushes for almost a week, after that.

“Right. I guess I haven’t really seen any, now you say that.” Jon hummed in response, settling further into M’s lap. It was a very comfortable spot to be, now he was sitting there. “So, uh… who was it you were talking about before?”

“Hm?”

“The guy who got bit?”

“Oh.” Jon hadn’t had an occasion to tell anyone this story before, and he found he very much didn’t want to dwell on it now. “Local bully. He used to do odd jobs for my grandmother, go after me when she wasn’t looking. He stole the book from me, but there was- um.”

“A spider?” M supplied, when Jon had been silent for a few moments.

“Yeah.” He closed his eyes. “Hiding in the spine of the book. It crawled out, bit him. He started swelling up, screaming at me for tricking him. Um. It wasn’t a local species, it was- was pretty venomous, apparently. I haven’t seen him since, but, uh. No one wants to talk about it. Maybe he just moved away.”

M didn’t respond immediately. Then he said, with careful deliberation: “Serves him right for bullying you.”

The laugh that choked its way out of Jon’s throat was halfway to a sob. “That’s one way to look at it, I guess.”

“It’s my way,” M said, and squeezed him tighter for a moment before loosening his grip. “You good to get off? No offence, but you’re kind of pointy.”

Jon took a deep breath, holding on for just a moment longer, before sliding off. “Yeah. Thanks. Again.”

“It’s no problem at all.”


	4. Phobia

His laptop had crashed,  _ again.  _ Jon was in a stormy mood as he strode back to his office, having spent nearly two hours up in the Institute's IT department only to be told that they couldn’t find anything wrong with it, and perhaps it was just a fluke that it had turned itself off five times already that morning whenever he tried to turn the volume up higher than setting three to listen to a statement he had recorded. The statement had played fine when the  _ computer tech  _ had adjusted the volume, of course, and the smug little smirk Jon had gotten for that rankled.

Needless to say, he did not have much patience left when Sasha caught him in the hall outside his office.

“Jon!” she exclaimed, stepping smoothly in front of him to cut him off. “How’d things go up in IT?”

“Fine,” he grunted. “Apparently there’s absolutely nothing wrong with the laptop, it’s running like a dream.”

She frowned. “That… doesn’t sound accurate.”

“Tell that to the technician.” He made to move past her, and she sidestepped to block his way with a bright smile.

“Still, at least it’s working now, right?” she chuckled. “That’s got to count for something.”

“If you don’t count the fact that it has a new glitch every week, and this reprieve is likely to be short-lived, yes.” He tried to step around her again. She moved, once again, to block him.

“Ever considered getting a new laptop?”

“The Institute won’t pay for it unless I can prove something’s wrong with this one,” he said absently, and then a bit sharper, “Sasha, can I please get by you to my office? This delay has put me very behind on my work schedule for the day and I’d like to get back on track as soon as possible.”

“Oh, sure, sure,” she said, not moving. “But actually, before you do that, I had a question on the most recent statement I’ve been researching, and I was wondering if you had time to come look over it with me? It’s back at my desk.”

“Is that the one with the ‘haunted’ bagpipes?”

She grinned. “The very same.”

“Of course,” he nodded, and tried to suppress a sigh. He really  _ didn’t  _ have time for this, right now, but Sasha wouldn’t ask for his advice unless she truly thought he could help and he supposed it was technically his job as the head of the department to provide support when his assistants asked for it. “Let me just grab some files from my office, I believe I saw one about a haunted sousaphone that has several similarities…” He took a step forward. She took a step back, still blocking his way.

“Actually!” She clapped her hands together. “I’ve just remembered that the sink in the breakroom was leaking earlier, could you come take a look at it?”

He blinked, baffled. “I doubt there’s anything I can do about  _ that. _ I’ll call Elias to hire a plumber if you want, my phone is in my off-”

“No, no!” she said, waving away his offer with a smile. “Probably not bad enough for a plumber, it was just an observation. Anyway, haunted bagpipes? Let’s go.” She gestured for him to lead the way to the assistants’ office.

It finally occurred to Jon to be suspicious. “Sasha, are you trying to keep me out of my office for some reason?”

“What?” she gasped, with such overexaggerated surprise and wounded innocence that her guilt was immediately confirmed. “Me? Keep you-? No, why would you think I’m trying to do that?”

Jon crossed his arms over his chest and glared at her. It didn’t seem to be a very effective glare, given that she just kept grinning at him.

“Sasha, why don’t you want me to go into my office?”

“No reason,” she said, still affecting innocence. “I just, ah… I’m really eager to start working on those haunted bagpipes.”

“Are you, now?” Jon said, or tried to say, but was interrupted by a shout from his office that sounded suspiciously like Martin. He raised his eyebrows.

Sasha grinned sheepishly. “You really  _ don’t  _ want to go in there,” she said.

He pushed past her anyway, and this time, she let him.

It took him a moment to parse what he was seeing when he opened the door to his office. Tim and Martin were in the back corner, whispering furiously at each other. Martin was halfway up the wall, balanced on a rickety wooden ladder that Tim was holding steady from the ground. Their whispered conversation appeared to be something along the lines of ‘Be quiet,’ ‘I know,’ ‘He’ll hear you,’ ‘It jumped at my  _ face,  _ what was I supposed to do?’ and other arguments along the same lines.

Martin spotted Jon almost immediately. “Jon!” he exclaimed, and nearly fell off the ladder. Tim spun around, letting go of the ladder and leaving it to wobble furiously as Martin tried to catch his balance.

“Boss! You’re back! Did you not, uh, Sasha wanted to talk to you about-”

“I tried,” she chimed in, stepping around Jon into the office. “You guys took too long.”

“It’s not  _ my  _ fault,” Martin protested, finally steady again. “I almost had it but then the ladder wobbled and-”

“Oi, this thing’s old, I’m doing the best I can!” Tim defended himself.

Martin looked on the verge of snapping back at him. Jon cleared his throat. “Can someone  _ please  _ tell me what the  _ hell  _ is going on?”

His three assistants all exchanged a look, before Tim and Sasha both pointedly turned to Martin. He huffed.

“Okay, Jon, don’t freak out. I was dropping off some files and I saw a spider on the ceiling.”

Jon tensed, immediately beset with the phantom feeling of legs running over his arms and across his spine. “A… spider?” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

“We were trying to catch it before you got back so we could get it out of here.”

_ “Martin  _ was trying to,” Tim interjected. “I told him you’d never notice it up in the corner and we should just leave well enough alone.”

“And… where is it now?” Jon asked cautiously.

Martin silently pointed to the corner across from the one they had the ladder set up in. “It spooked when the ladder moved and ran away. I thought it was going to jump on me at first.”

“Hence why you yelled and gave yourselves away,” Sasha concluded, sighing. “And after all my hard work distracting Jon, too.”

“You weren’t doing a very good job of it,” Jon muttered, trying to suppress the mental image of spiders leaping at people’s faces. 

“We’ll get it out of here,” Martin said, sounding apologetic. “It’ll just take a few more minutes.”

“Right.” Jon hesitated for just a moment, then took a hasty step backward. “I’ll be in the breakroom when you’re done.”

He turned and strode away, hoping it didn’t look too much like he was fleeing. Even though he was, without a doubt, fleeing.

Martin found him there ten minutes later, poking his head around the door with another apologetic smile. “It’s gone,” he said. “Sorry for the delay and all, but you’ll be fine to go back to your office now.”

Jon stood, slipping his laptop back into its bag and the bag over his shoulder. “Thank you, Martin,” he said. “And thank Tim and Sasha for me too.”

“Will do.” Martin stepped fully into the room. “Um, I was going to make some tea, do you want-”

“No, thank you,” Jon said, and brushed past him in the doorway without a backward glance.

He hesitated on the threshold of his office, casting his gaze over each and every nook and cranny to make sure no spiders had slipped past his assistants’ watch. Then he took a careful, slow step into the room, then several more, and he sat behind his desk with a sigh, tension draining from his shoulders as the space remained blessedly free of arachnids.

He pulled his laptop back out of his bag, then paused before opening it, fingers tapping on the cover. He’d learned to live with his arachnophobia over the years, and it had been a while since it’d sent him into a full panic attack like he’d had when he was a kid. Still, he’d never really had anyone try to  _ accommodate  _ for it by helping him maintain a spider-free environment, not without him having to ask for it first.

It certainly wasn’t  _ necessary,  _ not by a long shot. Tim had been right: Jon wouldn’t have noticed a spider lurking in the corner, not against the dark paneled walls of the Archives. But it was… nice.

Jon huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he opened his laptop. Martin was certainly the most frustrating of his assistants, with his constant offers of tea and general lack of skill when it came to research. He certainly wasn’t someone Jon would have  _ chosen  _ to work with, if he’d been given the choice.

But if he was taking it upon himself to keep the Archives clear of spiders... Jon couldn’t help but feel that that was more than enough reason to keep him around.


	5. Ocean

In early August, they went to the beach. M suggested it, with a defiance in his voice that Jon knew by now meant he felt he was breaking a rule.

“It’s just- it’s ridiculous to not go, right? Since it’s this close?”

“A bit, yeah,” Jon said, even though he never went down to the beach much himself, and he’d lived here for most of his life.

“So we should go. I mean, I’ve  _ never  _ been!”

“I’m not arguing, I think it’s a great idea!”

“Okay!” M glanced up the road, toward his house, just once. “It’s- it’ll be fine. It’ll just be the one day.”

“She’ll be fine,” Jon said, because he knew M needed to hear it, and because she had never once called for him, not in several months of spending the entire day in the bushes.

“Right. Yeah.” He set his shoulders, beginning to smile. “Yeah! Let’s go to the beach!”

So they went to the beach.

They left early in the morning, on Jon’s recommendation, to beat the tourists. The streets were quiet as they walked toward it, the sun just barely up over the horizon. It was already warm, and Jon could feel sweat beading up under the collar of his t-shirt before they were even halfway there.

“Should I have worn a swimsuit?” M asked suddenly, breaking the silence they had been walking in.

Jon shrugged. “Only if you want to go swimming. Though I mean, you can always just go in the water in your clothes too if you want. I didn’t wear one either.”

“Okay, good,” M said. “I’d feel weird if you had one and I didn’t.”

“Nah, you’re good. I don’t even have towels.”

“Yeah, I noticed that.”

As they got closer to the beach, Jon started glancing to his side every few steps, watching M’s face. Jon had brought them down far away from the pier, at a place where the dunes rose high enough to hide the beach itself until you were almost on top of it. M was looking ahead eagerly, eyes sparkling as he took the first steps onto the sandy path through the dune grass, trailing a hand through the plants at his side and wobbling a bit as the sand slipped out from under his shoes with each step.

Jon dropped back, letting M lead the way with an unimpeded view. When he got to the top of the small rise, M stopped in his tracks with a gasp.

Jon smiled, and walked forward to stand next to him.

It was a clear day, with only a few faint wisps of cloud in the sky. The sun was still new in the east, casting dark shadows to their right. The sand gleamed a brilliant white under its light. The waves were calm, deep blue shushing endlessly against the shore.

It was, Jon had to admit, rather perfect.

“It’s  _ beautiful,”  _ M said, and Jon smiled.

“Yeah,” he said. “It really is.”

Jon led them across the promenade, and they divested themselves of their shoes and socks as they hit the beach proper. The sand was not yet burning under the sun, and M spent a few minutes just digging his toes into it, feeling the way it crumbled and gave way under the pressure.

“It’s…” he said, hesitating, “grittier than I expected. But also softer, if that makes sense?”

“I think so?” Jon tilted his head to the side, considering. “If by softer you mean ‘way less stable’?”

“Yeah, exactly.” M kicked one foot at the sand, sending a plume of it out toward the waves. “I was expecting something more like a sandbox. Even grains, but held together pretty tightly.”

“Nope, this is the real deal now.” Jon crouched down, running his hand through the sand around him until his fingers bumped against something solid. He pulled it up, holding it between his fingers to show M. “Watch out for loose shells like this, they can be pretty sharp and if you’re not careful you can cut your feet. Glass too.” He tossed the shell away. “It’s easier to walk barefoot, but it does have risks to it.”

“Noted.” M looked across the beach. “Can we go down to the water now?”

The tide was out. Jon pointed out the tideline to M as they crossed it, with the line of small pebbles and seaweed left where the waves had deposited them. The sand was firmer here, held together with the lingering moisture of the waves. M buried his feet in it again, frowning when the sand clung to his skin after pulling them free.

“Urg.”

“It’ll fall off when it dries,” Jon reassured him. “Or we can go wading if you’re ready to brave the ocean.”

“Yes,” M said immediately, a grin spreading across his face. “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

He giggled when they got close enough for the first wave to touch his toes, then gasped as it pulled away the sand under his feet. “J, if I stood here long enough, would it bury me?”

“Maybe?” Jon shrugged. “That’s what tends to happen to things that get left on the beach. But it would take ages.”

M took another step forward, into an oncoming wave, and let out a short shriek as the water splashed over his toes and flecked small drops up his shins. Jon laughed, waiting until the wave had receded and then taking several steps down the beach.

“You’re going to get wetter than you think you will,” he said, as the next wave rose up around his ankles. “Especially if you’re moving, the water’s going to splash a lot.”

“Right.” M timed his next steps the way Jon had, following the water as it retreated and then standing still to let it rise over his feet. “How deep are you planning to go?”

“Only as far as you’re comfortable.” Jon stepped into the next wave, moving his feet against the rise of the water to kick up a small spray. “I can only go about shin-deep before my shorts get soaked.”

“Shin-deep sounds good.”

“Come on, then.” He reached behind himself, fingers splayed, and M took his hand and let Jon lead him deeper into the water.

‘Shin-deep’ was an imprecise measurement, but Jon stopped when the lowest water level was halfway up his shins and the higher waves were brushing his knees. M stepped a little bit further out, his extra height and shorter shorts lending him a bit more wiggle room before he risked getting soaked.

Jon bent down, trailing his fingers in the water. It was very warm by this late in the summer, and he smiled, submerging his arm up to the elbow to retrieve the rock he could feel poking at his toes. It wasn’t terribly flat, but he pulled it free nonetheless, sending it skipping out across the waves once he was upright again. Only two skips, but M looked impressed.

“I’ve never learned how to do that,” he said, sounding regretful.

“I’ll teach you,” Jon offered. “Once we’re back on shore, though, we’ll be able to find better rocks there.”

“Cool.”

They stood in the waves a while longer, M smiling as each one tugged at his balance, trying to push him back to shore or draw him deeper in. Jon considered splashing him with water, but decided against it as he really didn’t want to get soaked in a return attack.

There were other people beginning to gather as they made their way back to shore, various tourists and presumably a few residents setting up towels and umbrellas to claim their spot for the day. Jon led M away from the crowds, as much as he was able, walking along the shore with the waves just barely brushing the tips of their toes. M kept picking up shiny shells and rocks as they went, stuffing his pockets full of them, and Jon resigned himself to carrying the overflow when M ran out of room.

The stone skipping lessons did not go as smoothly as Jon had hoped, and he couldn’t quite tell if that was due to his failure as a teacher or M’s lack of skill; still, M didn’t seem to mind sending rock after rock plunging into the waves with a splash, so Jon didn’t count it as too big of a loss.

It was turning out to be a very hot, bright day. The sun was climbing higher in the sky, and the crowds were building, and the noise level with them. Jon found himself taking deep breaths, squinting his eyes against the light and growing quieter as they walked.

There was a sharp stab of pain behind his eyes, and he stopped short with a small exclamation of discomfort.

“J? You okay?” M’s voice came from right beside him. Jon tried to nod, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Headache,” he mumbled.

“Ouch. Do you, um… what can I do?”

“Um.” Jon raised his hands, pressing them over his eyes to block out the light. “I forgot my sunglasses,” he said, which wasn’t really a response.

“Sunglasses?” M asked. “I… yeah, it is pretty bright today, isn’t it?”

“Too bright,” Jon said. “Too loud, too hot, too  _ much.”  _ Too hard to think, with the pain still pulsing in his head.

“Here.” M’s hands landed on his shoulders, and Jon wanted to flinch away from the touch but he was already being pushed along into walking and he had no choice but to follow. He stumbled several times over the uneven sand, but M was there to catch him and before too long he was being ushered into a space that felt cooler, with firmer ground under his feet. M let go of him. “Is this better?”

He chanced pulling his hands away from his eyes for a moment, catching a brief sight of the changing hut M had pulled him behind before he had to cover them again. They were hidden away in the shadow behind it, protected from the sun and with a barrier to muffle the noise of the other beachgoers. Jon relaxed, just slightly.

“Yeah. This is good. Thank you.”

“Sure.”

There was a rustling sound beside him as M sat down on the concrete slab that supported the hut. Jon lifted one hand from his eyes for balance as he sank down beside him, then returned it to position. He rested his elbows on his knees, supporting his head on his hands.

M was quiet for a moment. Then: “So… sunlight gives you headaches?”

Jon shrugged. “Sometimes? Sometimes I’m okay. I usually bring sunglasses just in case but I was in a rush to leave today and I forgot. Didn’t think about it till the headache hit.”

“Why were you rushing?”

“I was excited.”

“Oh!” M sounded pleased. “Me too.”

“Sorry for cutting it short like this.”

M gave an audible shrug. “We should probably be heading back for lunch soon anyway.”

“Right.” The headache was starting to go away already, now that Jon was out of the sun. He removed his hands from his eyes, blinking them open.

“Feeling better?”

“A little.”

He scooted back toward the wall of the hut, resting against it. M followed.

“J?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you a vampire?”

_ “What?”  _ Jon gave him an incredulous look. He genuinely couldn’t tell if M was joking or not.

“With the sunlight and all.” M raised his eyebrows. “Seems pretty vampirish to me.”

He was  _ definitely  _ joking. “It’s ‘vampiric’,” Jon corrected. “And if I was wouldn’t I want to keep that a secret?”

“Not from me.”

“Especially from you. You’re close enough to drive a stake through my heart if you found out.”

“Yeah, but I’m also your best friend, so I wouldn’t.”

Jon froze. M frowned at him, then froze as well.

“Um.”

“Best friend?” Jon repeated.

“Um.” M looked at the ground. “I mean- if you- you’re mine,” he said quickly. “You’re my best friend. I guess I don’t know if I’m yours.”

“Of course you are!” Jon said. He felt a little breathless. He’d never had a best friend before, let alone been someone else’s. “Of course you’re my best friend.”

M  _ beamed.  _ “Good. So if you’re a vampire you have to tell me!”

“Or I could just turn you in the night and recruit you to my vampire army,” Jon said, holding his hands up like claws and bearing his teeth.

“You gotta catch me first!” M was on his feet in an instant, sprinting out from behind the changing hut and… not going very far, really, because as soon as he hit the sand his run slowed considerably. Jon laughed, springing up and chasing after him, headache forgotten for the moment.

They made their way back to the path home soon after, picking up their shoes and socks as they passed, and parted ways for lunch.


	6. Linguistics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Mentions of past transphobia from peers and parents.

“I’m gonna miss you at school this autumn,” M said, quietly but with true sincerity behind it. The summer was coming to a close at the end of the week.

“We’ll still be able to hang out after. Do our homework together, and stuff.”

“Yeah, but we won’t be in any of the same classes.” M, whose tenth birthday had gone past in early June shortly before the move, was heading into year six. Jon, whose birthday wasn’t until November, was a year behind him.

“True.” Jon rolled over on the grass, propping himself onto one elbow to look at him. It had rained the day before, and their hideout under the bushes was still too damp to sit in comfortably. They were on the ground outside the door of the shed, instead. “Are there any you’re looking forward to?”

“Hmm…” M closed his eyes, thinking about it. “I usually enjoy literature classes. Not- not the _writing_ parts, but I like reading new things.”

“Me too. Though I guess that isn’t much of a surprise.”

“What, Mr. ‘Two Books a Day’ likes his literature classes?” M pulled his arms free from where they had been crossed behind his head, clapping his hands to his cheeks in shock. “I never would have guessed.”

“Shut up,” Jon laughed, shoving M’s shoulder before falling to the ground to lay on his back again. “One book every two days. At most.”

“Oh, yeah, that makes _such_ a difference,” M snorted.

“It does!” Jon protested. “Anyway, I’m also looking forward to science, that’s usually pretty interesting.”

“Unless you get a teacher who insists on doing all the mathy bits.”

“Yeah, those teachers are evil.”

M snorted again. “Are there many evil teachers here?”

“I haven’t run into too many,” Jon shrugged. “But then again, you’re a year ahead of me. I haven’t met _those_ teachers yet.”

“True.” M fell silent for a moment, then said, with a lot more hesitation in his voice: “And the students? What are the kids around here like?”

Jon tilted his head one way, then the other, thinking about it. “Normal, I think? I mean, I don’t know anyone that well. There’s been a few bullies over the years, but for the most part they all just leave me alone.”

“Right…” M trailed off. When Jon glanced over, he was worrying at his lower lip, gnawing it between his teeth as he stared at the clouds.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” M said quickly, then let out a breath. “It’s just… I had some trouble at my last school? And I don’t want that to happen again.”

Jon genuinely could not imagine M getting into trouble at school. He was so much more conscientious about following rules that Jon was, and too nice to have anyone not like him. “Trouble like how?”

M shrugged, smiling ruefully. “Guess they just didn’t like me telling them I was a boy.”

Jon stared at him for a moment, utterly lost. “Why would they cause trouble about that?”

M glanced at him. “Sorry?”

“I mean…” Jon waved a hand in the air. “That’s just a fact. Why would they cause trouble about it?”

“Wh- I mean-” M looked baffled. “What?”

“What?” Jon said.

M sat up. There was a little, hurt furrow growing between his eyebrows. “J, that’s- I mean, look, just… stop playing dumb.”

"Don't call me dumb, I'm not playing.” Jon sat up as well, turning to face him. “What are you talking about?"

M stared at him for a second longer, mouth slowly dropping open with shock. “Oh my god.”

“What?” Jon asked. He was starting to get annoyed.

“J…” M said. He was beginning to laugh, suppressed giggles shaking his shoulders. “Did you really not-? Look, do you know the word _trans?_ Or transgender?”

“No…?”

“Oh my god,” M said again. “Okay, so, I was- I mean-” He waved his hands around for a minute, searching for words. "J, I was _born..._ like, genetically, I’ve got a girl's body."

Jon stared at him, frowning. Then: “What?”

“I- I mean,” M shook his head. “Why do you think my mum makes me dress this way?" He gestured at his own clothes, with the pink highlights and the bows. Jon just frowned harder.

"I- you said- I mean, I thought she was wrong?"

"She _is."_

"But then-"

"I was born in a girl's body. But I'm a boy. _Trans-_ gender, _across_ the gender line. I know you know Latin roots."

Jon blinked at him, absolutely baffled. It was true that M had said he’d been given a girl’s name, and it was very obvious that his mum only bought him girl’s clothes, but Jon had never considered that he’d been born with a body that was the wrong gender, too. That explained why his parents had gotten confused, at least.

M was waving his hand in front of Jon’s face. “J? Are you with me? This isn’t going to be a problem, is it? ...J?”

Jon shook his head, refocusing. “Sorry, sorry, just... how on earth does that happen?”

M shrugged, looking nervous. "I don't know. But it happened. I’ve read a bit about it, there’s a lot of people out there like me."

“Huh,” Jon said. He’d never read _anything_ about this. And he’d read a lot.

M tilted his head to the side. “You, uh… you really didn't know?"

"I really didn't," Jon said, smiling ruefully.

"So,” M said, and cleared his throat. “Is it going to be a problem?"

“What?” Jon said, startled. “No, of course not!”

“You’ve just been quiet.”

“Oh.” Jon hunched his shoulders. “...To be honest I'm just feeling like a bit of an idiot right now."

“Oh,” M repeated, brightening up. "I mean, _yeah,_ a bit."

"Hey! _Rude!”_ Jon leaned forward, shoving at his shoulder. M laughed, rocking back with the push and then leaning forward again.

"Don't shove me! Come on, _how_ did you not realize?"

"You said you were a boy!” Jon protested. “Why would I think about it more after that?"

M keeled over on his side, breathless as laughter continued to shake his frame. “Oh my god, you’re amazing.”

Jon shoved him again, gentler than before. “So're you.”

M huffed, staring up at him from the ground. His smile softened at the edges, and his eyes were warm. "Thanks," he said, and Jon smiled back.


	7. Organization

“You need to revise this,” Jon said, dropping a folder on Martin’s desk as he walked past and continuing on without looking.

“W-wait, what?” Martin said from behind him. Jon stopped, and turned to him.

“You need to revise your research,” he said again, a little louder so that Martin would hear. “Prioritize it over the McKenney statement, I’d like to be able to record this one by the end of the week.” He turned to walk away again, ignoring the raised eyebrow Tim was giving him from across the room.

“N-no,” Martin said. “I mean, what needs to be revised? I thought- well, I thought I did a pretty thorough job?”

“You’re missing several important pieces of contact information for the family involved,” Jon said over his shoulder. “I’m sure they’re in your research notes somewhere, just add them to the final report and get it back to me by Friday.”

Martin made another protesting noise behind him, but Jon ignored it, continuing on to his office without a backward glance. He could hear the low murmur of Tim and Sasha’s voices as he closed the door behind him, and he sighed. He would hope they were giving Martin advice on getting the reports right the first time around so things like this didn’t have to happen, but he couldn’t help but suspect they were instead commiserating over the extra work Martin would have to do.

Jon put his elbows on his desk, dropped his head into his hands, and sighed again. They’d been in the Archives for  _ months  _ now. He’d hoped issues like this would have been resolved already. It’s not like he expected Martin to be an experienced researcher right out of the gate: he’d come from the  _ Library,  _ for god’s sake, he’d need time to adjust. That was fine. And sure, Jon may have been a bit impatient with him at first, given the whole dog affair, but…  _ months.  _ And he was still formatting his reports wrong and leaving information out.

Jon had a sneaking suspicion that if any stricture came down upon the Archives from Elias about it all, the blame would land squarely on his own management style, not Martin’s faulty research.

He tried to push that thought aside. They had almost no oversight down here, it was unlikely anyone would notice if they were taking rather longer to get the Archives into a functional state than might have been expected. And really, it wasn’t a big deal, in the grand scheme of things, if the reports were missing some contact information. The cases were closed, after all, and they weren’t going to be reaching out to the families involved ever again, if all went well.

It still got under Jon’s skin.

He flicked a sheet of paper in front of himself, running a finger down the list on it. He’d have to delay recording the newest statement until Martin got it back to him on Friday… and the McKenney statement would be delayed now too, so he’d have to move that further down his recording queue as well…

He opened a draw without looking, reaching blindly inside it for a pencil to make the necessary adjustments to his list. Instead of a pencil, though, his hand met a smooth sheet of paper.

He paused, hand still in the drawer, refusing to look at it.  _ That  _ was getting under Jon’s skin as well. He’d written out a full letter to M, the first he’d written in years. It had been cathartic, to put the words to paper, and they’d flowed out of him with nary a pause for thought. And then… he’d been too much of a coward to send it. It had been sitting in his desk drawer since, gathering dust.

He didn’t really know why he couldn’t bring himself to send it. Maybe it had just been too long since the last one, and whatever connection had been maintained through their previous correspondence had finally died out. Maybe he was scared that M wouldn’t reply. Maybe he was scared that he would.

Jon’s fingers closed around the envelope, and he drew it out of the drawer without looking. He reached back, fumbling for the straps of his bag, and slid it inside. He deliberately did not think about what he was doing. It was just a piece of paper, that was all. Meaningless. Pointless. If he happened to drop it in a mailbox on his way out of work that evening, it wouldn’t change anything. It was nothing to torture himself over, nothing to think too hard about.

He pulled his hand back from his bag, leaving the letter tucked away safely inside, and grabbed a pencil. 

There was still a low murmur of voices coming from the other office. After a moment, it was interrupted by a loud scoffing sound from Martin, and a hearty laugh from Tim. This was followed by a chair scraping over the floor, and footsteps headed Jon’s way.

He glanced up at the heavy knock on the door.

“Come in.”

The door was pushed open. Martin strode inside, carrying the folder he was supposed to be revising, and stopped in front of Jon’s desk.

He slid the folder across to Jon. “I didn’t miss anything,” he said, sounding more than a little annoyed.

Jon raised an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

“I didn’t miss anything,” Martin repeated. He flipped the folder open, paging through the contents until he got to the very back of the pile. “Look. Right here. All the contact information I’ve got on the family, all nice and neatly typed up like you wanted.”

Jon blinked, scanning down the page. The information was, indeed, there. “Ah…” he said, embarrassment coloring his voice. “I… hadn’t seen that.” Then he frowned. “It’s at the  _ back  _ of the report.”

“Um, yeah?” Martin said. “So?”

Jon grabbed the folder, leafing through it. “Why is it at the back? It’s no wonder I didn’t see it - why do you have it separate from the corroborating evidence?” He paused at a different sheet of paper, holding it out for Martin to see.

Martin’s eyebrows shot up. “I mean, it’s different information. Did you just see that it  _ wasn’t  _ with the corroborating evidence and  _ assume  _ I’d forgotten it?”

That was exactly what Jon had done. “Forgive me for expecting accurate information  _ and  _ proper formatting,” he said, embarrassment at his own oversight now entirely transformed into annoyance at Martin’s. “I seem to have been laboring under the misapprehension that this was an academic institution.”

Martin’s face turned bright red. “My mistake,” he said, voice laced with barely restrained aggravation. “For assuming that the head of the department would read the reports he asked for  _ thoroughly.” _

Jon bristled. “The purpose of including contact information is so that future researchers can follow up on these cases without having to track down the people involved themselves,  _ not  _ for my benefit. The fact that I don’t read every single word you write down is not an excuse to slack off.”

“I’m not slacking off!” Martin cried, flinging his hands up in exasperation. “That’s what I’m  _ telling  _ you! I  _ have  _ all the information the case needs, why are you acting like I’ve done something wrong?”

“Because it’s out of order!” Jon matched him for volume, dropping the case file to his desk with a  _ thump. _

Martin rolled his eyes. “What does it  _ matter  _ if the contact information is at the back? It makes more sense, anyway, no one’s going to be looking for that stuff when they’re in the middle of the evidence section.”

"What does it-?” Jon scoffed. “There's a  _ system,  _ Martin, and it's there for a  _ reason.  _ If it's out of order there might be pieces missing and no one will notice because  _ everything's  _ in the wrong place!"

"I'm not missing any pieces! Jeez, Jon, that’s the whole reason this started!”

“But you  _ might  _ have been, and there would be no way to know!”

_ “I  _ would know!” Martin insisted. “I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of this, I just put things in a different order than normal! It’s not a crime!"

"But  _ I  _ have to  _ deal  _ with your 'different order' when I record the statements, which makes it  _ my  _ problem!"

"Jon,” Martin said, and rubbed his fingers into his temples as though he was staving off a headache. “You don't even  _ look  _ at most of that stuff when you record, you proved that just now by not seeing the contact information.” He paused, then said, in a reasonable tone of voice, “And anyway, what does it matter? Half the statements that get sent down here from Research are in any old order, it’s not like there’s some universal system to this.”

“Believe me, I have issues with Research too,” Jon muttered darkly, then sighed. “We’re meant to be organizing this place, yes? So I’m just- I’m  _ trying  _ to build a system where there wasn’t one before. And that means  _ consistency,  _ that means  _ order,  _ that means- that  _ means,  _ Tim and Sasha are organizing their case files the way all three of us did back when we  _ were  _ researchers, so  _ you  _ have to as well."

He finished with a glare and a pointed fingertip resting atop the file. Martin stared at him for a second in silence, blinking.

“You don’t actually hate me, do you?” he said eventually, like it was some sort of wondrous revelation. “You're just stressed, and I'm contributing to that, so you're taking it out on me.”

That stopped Jon in his tracks. "W-what?" he spluttered. "No, of course I don't hate- why would you think-"

"Well, there is the fact that you keep yelling at me."

“I-” Jon opened and closed his mouth, wordless. He took a deep breath, then said, much quieter, “I’m sorry.” Martin raised an eyebrow, and Jon hurried to explain. “I haven’t meant to- it just, it bothers me when things are… chaotic. This place, especially, it’s all out of order and there’s no  _ system  _ to it… I don’t do well when there’s no system in place. I’ve been- you’re right, I’ve been unfairly hard on you, I just-” He shook his head. “I don’t do well with change. And changing between the way  _ I  _ do things and the way  _ you  _ do things gets… stressful, particularly with everything else so disorganized as well. But I don’t- I don't  _ hate  _ you, Martin. I'm sorry I gave you that impression."

"Huh." A slow smile spread over Martin's face; after a moment, he laughed.

"What?" Jon was aware his own face was set in a frown. The idea that Martin had thought he  _ hated  _ him was- well, it was bothersome.

"Sorry," Martin said, shaking his head. "You just reminded me of an old friend for a minute there."

Jon blinked. “Oh. Okay?”

Martin sighed. “Look, Jon. I accept your apology, and… honestly I’m quite glad that the only issue you have with me is the way I organize my research reports, I was worried it was a lot more personal.” Jon winced. “But for the record…” He leaned forward, placing his hands flat on Jon’s desk. “No one told me there was a specific way the reports were supposed to be organized. I can’t exactly follow a system I don’t know.”

Jon stared at him silently for a moment. “Tim and Sasha didn’t show you?” he eventually said, voice sounding small even to his own ears.

“Nope,” Martin said, with an easy smile. “I’ve been flying blind. You’re not the only one that’s been stressed about the new job, you know.”

“...Right.” Jon cleared his throat, tearing his eyes away from Martin’s. “Um. I’ll write down a summary and email it to you later today, shall I?”

“I’d appreciate that.” Martin stepped back. Jon nodded, looking back at the various files on his desk, and Martin seemed to take it as a dismissal, turning for the door. He paused with one foot out of the room, though, and glanced at Jon over his shoulder. 

“Jon?” he asked hesitantly. “Are… are we good, then?”

Jon took a deep breath. “I, uh. I think I should be asking you that.”

Martin smiled. “We’re good,” he said decisively.

Jon smiled back. “Good.”


	8. Systems

As the weather turned colder, the hideout under the bushes became a less viable spot to spend their days. Normally at this time of year Jon would retreat back home, hiding away in his room with his books until spring finally rolled around again; now that he and M were spending their after-school hours together, they had to find a new place.

M was the one who suggested breaking into the shed, and M was the one who made the first venture inside to look for and remove any spiders before Jon set foot in it.

“It’s clear!” he shouted, poking his head out of the doorway a moment later. “It’s great in here, J, there’s a table and some shelves and everything! Bit dark, but if we dust off the window there should be enough light to read by.”

“Are you  _ sure  _ there are no spiders?” Jon asked, clutching their pillows closer to his chest. He’d rescued them from the bushes while M looked inside.

“Positive,” M grinned. “Looked in every nook and cranny.”

“Well… if you’re sure…” Jon took a few hesitant steps closer.

“‘Course I’m sure, J. Come on!” He ducked back inside, and Jon took a deep, heartening breath before following.

Inside the shed was dark and cool, but free from the biting chill that permeated the air outside. There was, as M had said, a small table pushed against one wall, and low shelving units lining the others. Various hooks and equipment racks were affixed higher on the walls, but the only gardening implements left were a few chipped planting pots pushed into a corner. Faint, greying light streamed in from the single window, in the front wall next to the door.

It was, quite frankly, perfect.

“Whoa,” Jon said, looking around in awe.

“What did I tell you?” M said. He looked terribly proud. “This place is great! I can’t believe you’ve never been in here before!”

Jon felt the need to defend himself. “Well, there is the small issue of breaking and entering...” he began, but M just laughed.

“No one’s been in here in years! They’ll never know.”

“And the spiders!” Jon added, crossing his arms across his chest defiantly.

“I’ll fight off any spiders that try to make a home in here, don’t you worry,” M said, puffing out his chest confidently. “You’re safe as long as you’re with me.” And then he reached over, and tried to ruffle Jon’s hair. 

Jon  _ yelped,  _ jumping backward and batting his hand away.

“Whoa, J, are you okay?” M asked, eyes going wide.

“You startled me!” Jon snapped.

“Sorry!” M held his hands up, taking a step back.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Jon huffed, lifting his own hands to his hair to brush it back into place. “I just don’t like people touching my head.”

“Sorry,” M said again, relaxing. “I didn’t know that.”

“It’s never come up,” Jon said primly, then sighed. “It’s fine, really, I get it enough from my grandmother whenever she cuts my hair. You just caught me by surprise.”

“Clearly.” M smiled, then reached over very,  _ very  _ slowly to pat him on the shoulder. “I promise I won’t touch your head again unless you’re stuck in quicksand and it’s the only bit of you I can grab to pull you free,” he said, and Jon laughed.

“Much appreciated.”

Over the next few weeks they slowly remade the shed into a cosy place to stay, dragging in a few old wooden chairs that a neighbor had been getting rid of and dusting… well,  _ everything.  _ M found more pillows in his basement so they could lay comfortably on the floor while doing their homework, and Jon brought in some of the books his grandmother had got him that were more interesting than most, creating a small collection on the shelves that he and M could share.

It was a surprisingly fraught task.

“That makes  _ no  _ sense.”

“Yes it does!”

“J, that’s… that’s  _ completely  _ backward!”

“No it’s not!”

“J!” M flung his hands out, gesturing to the shelf where Jon had been placing the newest series he’d acquired and wanted to share. “Putting them right to left is literally the definition of backward! Books are supposed to go left to right!”

“This just makes more sense, okay?” Jon said, continuing to place the books on the shelf: the first book in the series to the far right, and subsequent books to its left, in order.

“In what universe?”

“This one.”

“Oh my god,” M said, and tried to snatch the book Jon was holding away.

“No, look,” Jon said, ducking out of his way. “It does! Because when you want to read them you can grab the whole series out, like this-” He demonstrated, balancing the books between both hands, “-and set it down on the table of your choice, with the first book on top ready to grab and read. Then just move it to the bottom of the stack when you’re done and the second book is right at your fingertips!”

M looked from the stack of books on top of the shelf, to Jon, and back again. “That strategy is  _ literally  _ only useful if you’re reading a book a day. Most of the world just leaves the rest of the series on the shelf while we’re reading the first book.” He reached for the stack, plucking the first book from the top and placing it on the far left of the shelf.

“Wait, M, stop!” Jon protested, trying to grab it back and move it to the right, but M blocked him and grabbed the second book too. Jon huffed, then grabbed the remainder of the books off the shelf and backed away, clutching them to his chest.

“Wait, J, are you serious?” M spun around to watch him, one eyebrow raised.

“Yes!” Jon said. He knew he was getting unreasonably upset, but he couldn’t help it. “I’ve always put series right to left, there’s nothing wrong with it!”

“It’s confusing! You can do what you like in your own room, but this is my library too, I want to be able to find stuff!”

“You will!” Jon insisted. “Look, I’ve got a system, I don’t want to change it!”

“Oh my god, J,” M groaned, throwing up his hands in frustration. “You’ve got a system for homework, you’ve got a system for packing your school supplies, you’ve got a system for lunch, I  _ get it,  _ you like doing things your way, but not  _ everything  _ can be like that! There's nothing wrong with changing things up!"

"Yes there is!” Jon said, then felt his mouth drop open as he suddenly realized just why he was so bothered by all of this.

_ "What?"  _ The look M gave him then was torn between bafflement and irritation.

“I-” Jon said, blinking a few times as he tried to find the words. “I just… look, it’s- things are changing  _ so much,  _ all the time, and I just- I need  _ something  _ to stay the same.” He carefully set the books back on top of the shelf, then sat down on the floor facing it, pulling his knees up to his chest. “I need things I can rely on, things I can control. It’s- it's  _ scary,  _ when things change. I don't know how to react. Everything- everything I had a handle on, everything I  _ knew  _ how to handle, suddenly it's gone, and I- I don't know what to do. Like- like with school, I’ve got all new teachers, new classes, new things people are expecting me to know how to do, but at least my bag is packed the same way it was last year, right?” He hunched his shoulders, hoping he didn’t sound as teary as he felt. “I just- I need things I know what to do with. Otherwise I won’t know how to do anything.”

It was silent for a moment when he finished speaking. M sat down on the floor next to him, crossing his legs. Then he said, quietly: “I didn’t know.”

Jon just curled in on himself more. “I’m sorry for being difficult.”

“No, no, it’s-” M took a short breath, “it’s okay. I’m sorry for getting angry at you, I didn't know it was bothering you that much.” He paused for a beat, then gave a small laugh. "And, um. I'm sorry for bugging you this past summer, I guess? I've turned your life upside down, I didn't mean to scare you."

"N-no,” Jon said, sitting up straight and giving M a wide-eyed look. "You didn't. I mean…” He considered for a second. “It  _ was  _ scary, I guess, but scary in a good way. In a ‘I like this person and I’m scared I’m going to do something wrong and make them leave’ way.”

“Oh,” M said softly. “Um. I like you too.” He leaned into Jon’s shoulder, and Jon leaned back gratefully. “And I’m not going anywhere.” Jon nodded, turning his face into M’s shoulder and closing his eyes.

He opened them again when he felt M shift. He had reached forward for the books on the shelf, and was moving them back to where Jon had originally placed them, organized right to left.

Jon swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

"No problem," M said, and slid the last book into place.


	9. Visiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Brief misgendering of a trans character out of ignorance, not malice. Skip the four paragraphs between _"His grandmother was a stickler for good posture."_ and _"Hm. Em, is it? As in Emanuel, Emmett?"_ at the beginning of the chapter if you want to avoid it. All you miss is the process of correcting the mistake.

"Can I have a friend over tomorrow?"

Jon fidgeted as he spoke, hands clasped behind his back and trying to stand up straight. His grandmother was a stickler for good posture.

She raised an eyebrow. "Is this that girl you've been running around with?"

Jon frowned, about to ask what she was talking about, but then- "You mean M? M's a boy, grandmother."

"Is he?" The eyebrow rose further. "With  _ that  _ haircut?" Jon's grandmother had  _ opinions  _ about long hair on boys, hence his own shorn locks.

Jon bit his lip. "His mum won't let him cut it."

"Hm. Em, is it? As in Emanuel, Emmett?"

"Like Mark, Martin, Matthew."

"Ah, I see." She peered at him over the top of her glasses. She had a sharp stare, only made more intense by the severity of her slate-grey hair pulled back into a bun. On the rare occasions she let it down that hair would spill around her shoulders, long and loose like a silvery waterfall. Jon was, as M would say, dead jealous of it. "Well, so long as you don't make too much noise. And make sure your friend takes his shoes off, I'm not having you tracking mud all through the house."

"Yes, grandmother. Thank you," Jon said, ducking his head a little. He knew well enough how to keep out of her way at this point; he wouldn't have invited M over if he didn't think he couldn't do the same.

“Good,” she said, and seemed about to turn away from the conversation before she paused. “I’m glad that you’ve made a friend,” she added, almost as an afterthought.

Jon grinned, warmth blossoming in his chest. “I am too.”

M announced his arrival the next day with a cheerful knocking on the door, the shave-and-a-haircut rhythm they’d both taken to using at the shed to avoid startling each other when one of them was late.

Jon bolted upright in bed when he heard it, dropping his book unceremoniously and rushing out of his room and down the stairs to answer. He yanked the door open with rather more force than his grandmother would have approved of to find M standing on the front step and smiling fit to burst.

“Happy birthday!” he said, quietly but with extreme enthusiasm. “Thanks for inviting me over!”

“Of course!” Jon replied, with an equally large grin. “Wouldn’t want to spend the day with anyone else.”

He stepped back, waving M into the house after him. M looked around with wide eyes, though there wasn’t much to see in the entryway.

“You can leave your shoes there,” Jon said, pointing to the mat on the floor where his own sat next to his grandmothers’. “And I can take your jacket if you want.”

“Thanks,” M said, shucking the coat and passing it over to Jon. He hung it in the small hall closet as M toed his shoes off onto the mat. “And, um. Here.” M stuck his hand out when Jon turned around, looking nervous. He was holding a small object wrapped in paper. “It’s not much, but, um. Happy birthday.”

Jon’s eyes widened as he took it. “You didn’t have to get me anything!”

“I know,” M said, shifting on his feet. “But I wanted to. I, uh. I made it.”

Jon carefully unwrapped the paper packaging. Inside was a small slip of thin cardboard, painted with thick lines of dark green interspersed with small dots of white.

“It’s, um, it’s a bookmark. I tried to paint the rose bushes on it but I don’t think they came out very good…”

Jon finally looked up from the bookmark, smile splitting his face. “I love it! It’s perfect, M, thank you!”

“O- oh! You’re welcome!”

Jon stepped forward, sweeping him into a hug and squeezing him tight. “Come on, I’ll go put it on my shelves, I can show you my room too!”

He grabbed M’s hand with his free one, tugging the other boy away from the front door and toward the stairs. M followed willingly, head turning left and right as he tried to take in everything around him. Jon kept his steps light on the stairs, motioning M to mimic him as they went up.

“My grandmother’s in her office at the end of the hallway,” he whispered. “My room’s on the other end so she won’t hear us when we’re in there.”

M nodded.

Jon hesitated for a moment outside the door to his room before opening it and ushering M inside. He’d never actually brought a friend over before, and he found that he was quite nervous about it, turning to M and searching for approval on his face as he looked around the room.

He found it.

“This is amazing, J! Wow, how many books do you  _ have?” _

One whole wall was taken up by shelves, packed floor to ceiling with tattered paperbacks. M stepped over to them, lifting a hand to run over the spines, smiling slightly as he picked out the right to left organization and following it across the shelves.

“I’m not sure?” Jon said. “I’ve never actually counted. Those ones up there,” he pointed to the top shelf, “belonged to my parents, I haven’t read all of them.  _ These  _ ones-” he indicated a large swath of the middle shelves, “My grandmother got for me and she says I should keep them because everyone should have them in their library.” It was mostly classics, Shakespeare and Dickens and other famous authors with smaller bibliographies to their names. “The bottom’s just a bunch of reference books my grandmother stuck in here.  _ This  _ shelf is the good one.” It was at chest height, and the only shelf that wasn’t completely full. There was one stack of books on the right, and one on the left, and between them a small gap of free space with a ceramic cat figurine sitting in it. Jon leaned the bookmark against the figurine, giving it pride of place. “The ones on the right are new, and the ones on the left are going back to the charity shop.”

“Wow,” M said, following Jon’s explanation with riveted attention, like he was being let behind the curtain to see the magician’s tricks. Jon stood up straighter, ridiculously proud to have drawn such a reaction. “That’s really cool, J!”

The rest of his room was met with equal interest, from the drawer filled with half-dry markers and snapped crayons that he’d never gotten around to getting rid of to the collection of sparkling sea-smooth rocks from the beach that lined his windowsill.

Once the tour was over Jon led them back downstairs for lunch.

“You don’t have any food allergies, do you?” he asked as he opened the fridge, looking to see what was on offer for leftovers.

“Nope,” M said, leaning against the counter as Jon searched.

“Good.” Jon snagged a container, shutting the door behind him as he turned around. “Do you like saag paneer?”

M blinked. “I’ve… never heard of it?”

“You’ll love it.” He set the container on the counter, then climbed onto the counter next to it to reach the bowls in the high cabinets.

“Careful!” M said, hovering beneath with his arms held out, ready to catch him if he fell.

“I’m fine.” Jon brushed him off, hopping back off the counter once he had the bowls. “Cutlery’s in the drawer over by the stove, can you grab us some spoons?”

M did so, while Jon dived back into the fridge to grab the forgotten rice.

“It’s not as good reheated as it is fresh, but it’s still good,” he said as he spooned the food into both their bowls.

“What, ah… what is it?” M asked, sounding apprehensive as he got a good look at the thick green dish.

“Mostly spinach?” Jon shrugged. “It’s an Indian dish, my grandmother’s been making it for as long as I can remember.”

“Oh.” M’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I didn’t know you were Indian.”

“British Indian.” Jon mimicked the raised eyebrows. “It’s not like I’ve ever been to India.”

“Right, sorry,” M laughed, sounding a bit embarrassed. “I knew that.”

“It’s fine, I’m used to it.” He moved over to the microwave, sliding both bowls in at once and setting the timer. “I’m actually surprised it took you so long to ask.” Most of the kids at school did so shortly after their first introduction. Jon had come to anticipate the questions, and the rote responses that followed:  _ yes, I was born in England; no, I don’t speak another language; no, I can’t teach you anything about the culture, because my grandmother never taught me. _

M just shrugged. “Didn’t seem relevant, I guess?” he said. “I don’t know, it’s not like I go around telling everyone my dad’s family is from Poland. Why would I ask you where yours is from?”

“Fair point.” Jon bit his tongue, stopping himself from asking any questions after that. M had never talked about his father before, but it was an unspoken agreement between them: Jon wouldn’t ask about M’s parents, and M wouldn’t ask about Jon’s.

The microwave beeped. Jon took the bowls out, stirring them once to ensure they were heated evenly through, then set them down at the small kitchen table and took a seat. M sat next to him, poking at the food with his spoon.

“Uh, J?” he asked. “I’m, um, I’m not very good with spicy foods, is this…”

Jon laughed, and whatever tension had been in the room dissipated. “No, you should be fine. My grandmother always makes it mild for me, I can't do spicy foods either. It's like… like with sunlight?”

M frowned. “It gives you headaches?”

“No, I mean… it’s like…” Jon waved a hand, searching for the words. “The reason sunlight gives me headaches is it’s… it’s sharp, sort of? Bright lights feel sharp, and it’s overwhelming and it becomes painful. Noise can be too. Spicy foods are… not so much sharp, but still overwhelming, and they hurt. So this is flavorful, not hot."

“Okay?” M said. Jon could tell he still didn’t quite get it, but he scooped up a spoonful of the saag paneer to try anyway. His eyebrows shot up as he tasted it. “Okay,” he said, a lot more confident, “I’ll trust your food recommendations in the future.”

“Told you so,” Jon smirked, and got a shove in retaliation.

They spent the rest of the afternoon in Jon’s room, passing the time in much the same way as they would have if they’d been in the shed. It felt special, though, this rare opportunity for Jon to bring M into  _ his  _ space, instead of sharing the space they’d built together. M went home shortly before dinner, thanking Jon once again for inviting him over.

Jon found himself staring at his new bookmark as he got ready for bed that night, a small smile on his face. It had been, without a doubt, his best birthday ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am American, and white, so if I’ve written anything inaccurate or insensitive about Jon’s experience being British Indian, I apologize. The loss of connection to his culture across generations, and his own feelings about it, are based on what I’ve seen in my own (Azorean) maternal family line, from my second-generation great-grandmother (she’s 102 and possibly immortal) down to myself.
> 
> Also: saag paneer is amazing and if you ever get the chance you should try it.


	10. Tea

Jon carefully pressed his ear to the door of his office, listening for activity on the other side. He could hear Sasha humming to herself, and the click of keys from someone’s keyboard, but that was all. No way to tell if Martin was still in the office or not.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, checking the time. It was a quarter to noon, which meant it was far past the time when Jon ought to have been drinking his morning cup of tea. But Martin hadn’t stopped by yet to ask him if he wanted any, so he  _ might  _ be on his way to the breakroom any minute. It was possible that he’d been and gone already with tea for the three assistants, but it seemed unlikely that he’d do that without checking up on Jon… he was still determined to win this battle between them.

Jon usually just waited until Martin had finished in the breakroom to make his own tea, so he didn’t have to run the risk of bumping into him. But it was almost  _ noon... _

He came to a sudden decision, opening the door and slipping out into the hallway as quietly as possible. One glance into the assistants’ office confirmed Martin was still at his desk, brow furrowed in concentration as he typed away industriously at his computer. Jon couldn’t help but smile at the sight. Ever since he’d explained his organizational system to Martin the man had followed it religiously, even going so far as to reorganize the papers in the new reports that came down from Research before filing them. He still wasn’t the world’s best researcher, but he was managing a consistency in his work that Jon valued greatly.

He shook those thoughts away as he entered the breakroom. Tim and Sasha were consistent too, and the only reason it stood out in Martin was that he  _ hadn’t  _ been for so long.

He’d just filled the kettle with water and set it to boiling when footsteps sounded in the hall outside, and he froze, torn between pretending he’d come in here for something other than tea and certainty that that was an utterly ridiculous plan. The choice was taken from him when Martin rounded the corner and entered the room.

He smiled when he saw Jon. “Oh, there you are! I was just looking for you in your office to see if you wanted any-” he saw the kettle, and frowned. “...Tea.”

Jon cleared his throat. “I’m all set, thank you,” he said, busying himself taking a mug down from the cabinet so he didn’t have to face whatever look Martin was wearing.

“Jon,” Martin said, exasperation clear in his voice.

“Yes?” Jon replied, now bent over the fridge looking for milk.

“If you’re making tea anyway, why don’t you just let me do it?”

“Not your job,” Jon said, aiming for careless and landing closer to defensive. He put the milk on the counter, started looking for sugar.

“I want to do it, though,” Martin said.

“You’re already covering three people, I’m not going to add on top of that.”

“Jon,” Martin said, and Jon could tell without looking that he was pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can you please just let me make you your goddamn tea?”

“Why is this so important to you?” Jon asked, finally turning around to face him. Martin looked genuinely upset, face faintly flushed with an angry red.

“Why is it so important to  _ you?”  _ he countered, crossing his arms.

“I don’t like black tea.”

Martin stared at him for a second, completely silent. Then he buried his face in his hands and groaned with frustration. “Then tell me what you  _ do  _ like and I’ll just make that! Christ, Jon, has all of this  _ really  _ been because you thought I’d only make black tea?”

“No, it’s been because you’ll never get my tea right.”

The kettle whistled behind him. Martin gestured at it imperiously. “Well, then? Show me how it’s done.”

Jon nodded once, sharply, and turned to click the kettle off. As he did so he pulled his phone out of his pocket, starting a timer for exactly how long it needed to cool before he could pour it into the mug. He grabbed a pill box and a tea infuser out of one of the drawers, opening the  _ Wednesday  _ compartment on the box and tilting the contents into the infuser.

“I make my own blend at home,” he told Martin, as he clipped the infuser shut. “I measure out each serving before I come to work so I don’t have to think about it once I’m here.”

Martin just nodded, watching him carefully.

The timer went off, and Jon dropped the infuser into his mug, using the same movement to pick up the kettle and pour a careful stream of water over it. There was a dark line stained into the ceramic from previous usage; he filled the mug just up until that line, no more, and put the kettle to the side again. The beeping timer was swiftly replaced with another, to track how long it needed to steep for, and Jon grabbed a set of measuring spoons from the drawer in preparation for adding milk and sugar.

Martin snorted, and Jon turned around to give him a cool look. Martin just waved it off with a smile.

When the second timer went off, Jon carefully pulled the infuser out of the mug and dropped it in the sink. He measured out exactly two-thirds of a teaspoon of sugar, stirred the mug once with the measuring spoon, then added one-and-a-quarter tablespoons of milk. One more stir, then the measuring spoons went in the sink as well.

He finished the process by turning around and leaning back against the counter, one hand tucked in his pocket as he took a slow, deliberate sip from his mug with the other. He raised one eyebrow at Martin as he pulled the mug away from his lips.

“No one ever gets it right.”

Martin just stared at him for a second. Then:

“Try me,” he said, and gestured Jon away from the counter as he clicked the kettle back on.

Jon watched with surprise as Martin pulled  _ another  _ pill box and infuser out of a different drawer, then reached back in for his own set of measuring spoons and waggled them in Jon’s direction with a smile.

The surprise did not falter as Martin set his own phone alarms for cooling and steeping time, nor when he carefully doled out his own portions of milk and sugar. Indeed, his routine seemed just as complicated as Jon’s, with the added factor of making two much simpler mugs of normal black tea for Tim and Sasha.

When he finished he mimicked Jon’s self-satisfied posture from before, leaning back against the counter and raising his eyebrows while he took a sip.

“I know tea, Jon,” he said.

Jon tipped his head, giving him a respectful nod. He could admit when he had lost. “So you do.”

Martin gave him an arch look. “So will you let me make your tea now?”

“You never said why that’s so important to you,” Jon said, in lieu of an answer. Just because Martin knew how to make specialized tea didn’t mean he’d be able to make  _ Jon’s  _ tea.

Martin just sighed. “I don’t know. It’s a bonding thing, or something.” He shrugged. “I mean, I get that you didn’t think I’d be able to make your tea right, but it kind of felt like you weren’t even giving me a chance? Like my tea wasn’t  _ good enough  _ for you, or something. Though, if you really were just trying to save me a hassle,” he laughed, “I appreciate it.”

“I was,” Jon said, laughing as well, and hoped it covered his wince. He still felt guilty for the whole ‘Martin had thought he hated him’ thing, and he hadn’t realized the tea was contributing to that. “Are you  _ sure  _ you want to take on another specialty brew? I don't mind making my own."

Martin smiled, a warm look in his eyes. “I’d like to try, if you don’t mind.”

“Alright, then.” Jon walked over, leaning on the counter next to him. “You’re going to need two new timers…”

The next day, at shortly after eleven, Martin knocked briskly on the door of his office and strode inside without waiting for a response. He set a mug of tea on the desk in front of Jon and stood back, crossing his arms over his chest.

Jon picked up the mug, giving it a cautious sniff. He’d never had a good cup of tea made by someone else, but it smelled alright. He took a sip.

The grin that spread over his face when the taste hit his tongue was big enough to make his cheeks hurt. He glanced up, meeting Martin’s eyes, and watched an equally wide grin spread over his face in return.

“Good?” he asked, the delight in his tone almost masking the smugness that underlay it.

“Perfect,” Jon said, and took another sip.


	11. Experiment

“Did you know they made battery-powered kettles?” Jon asked, as soon as he pushed the door to the shed open. His breath bloomed in a cloud of steam in front of his face as he talked, and he was quick to close the door behind him again, blocking out the frigid winter air.

“I… did not?” M said, raising his eyebrows. He was bent over their small table, pencil clutched in one gloved hand and poised over the paper in front of him. A history textbook was propped open next to him.

“Look at it,” Jon said, and swung the intriguing item up by the handle to plop it down directly on top of M’s homework. “They’re for camping, apparently, my grandmother bought it because she said we’d catch cold if we don’t have something hot to drink. What are we supposed to do with it?”

“Um.” M pushed the kettle off his homework, carefully retrieving the paper and sliding it between the pages of his book to hold his place. “Make tea?”

“Eurg.” Jon grimaced. “There’s  _ got  _ to be something better than that. Do you think we could heat milk in it and make hot chocolate?”

“Wait, J,” M said, ignoring the milk comment entirely. “Do you not like tea?”

“No?”

M gave him a baffled look.

“What? It’s just hot water that smells like leaves.”

“J…” M said, appalled. “It’s  _ tea.  _ Everyone likes it!”

“Do they?” Jon asked, skeptical. “Or do they just say they do, so they don’t sound weird.”

M hesitated.

“Do  _ you  _ like tea?” Jon pressed.

“I…  _ drink  _ tea…”

“Do you  _ enjoy  _ it?”

M scowled. “Fine, you win. It’s… tolerable. At best.”

“Ha!” Jon punched the air, spinning in a delighted circle at the victory.

“Okay, okay,” M said. “It’s not like I said I hated it or anything. I still drink it.”

Jon stopped on a dime, hopping up onto the chair next to M to lean his elbows on the table. “Why? If you don’t like it.”

M shrugged. “I dunno, feels rude to turn it down when someone makes it for you. And everyone else seems to really enjoy it. I always just figure, y’know, maybe I just haven’t had a  _ good  _ cup yet. Maybe I’m just making it wrong.”

“Huh.” Jon fell silent, staring intently at the side of the kettle as he thought about that. M waited a moment to see if he was going to say more, then turned back to his homework, retrieving his paper and flipping his book open again. After a minute, Jon joined him, dropping his bag off his shoulders and digging around in it to find his supplies.

Ten minutes later he set his pencil down with a decisive  _ click,  _ pushing aside the sheet of math problems he was supposed to be working through.

“We should experiment,” he said.

M jumped slightly, then frowned and began erasing the line he’d accidentally scored across his page. “On what?”

“Tea.” Jon picked up the kettle, flicking the spout open and closed.

“Sorry?”

“We should try to make good tea,” Jon clarified. “What you said, about making it wrong? Maybe we are. There’s loads of different blends out there, variations on sugar and milk, how long you steep it for, how hot the water is. There’s got to be  _ some  _ combination that tastes good.”

“Okay…” M said slowly. “So what are you thinking?”

“Make it a science experiment!” Jon turned his homework over, sketching out a quick chart on the back. “We can start with black tea, ‘cause that’s easiest to get, and fully boiled water…” He added another column with a flourish, then spun the paper around so M could see it. “Keep the milk consistent too, and start with no sugar at all. If that doesn’t taste good, we add a little bit of sugar to the next cup. Then more and more, until it’s  _ too  _ sweet, and once we narrow down what the right amount of sugar is we start adjusting the milk. If it still doesn’t taste right with the sugar and milk both perfected, we can change how long we steep it, and the water temperature, and if it  _ still  _ doesn’t taste good we’ll have to give up on black tea entirely and find something new. Then we start again from the beginning!”

M stared at him for a moment. “And the, uh, chart…?”

“So we can keep track.” Jon tapped his finger against it. “We’ll write down each combination as we try it, so we don’t repeat anything. And we can make a rating system too, so we know what’s good!”

He beamed at M. M blinked back.

Then he shrugged. “Okay, then. Sounds fun.”

“Excellent!” Jon clapped his hands together. “Tomorrow, I’ll bring tea.”

That was how Jon ended up peering over M’s shoulder, stopwatch in hand, as they stared at a slowly-brewing cup of tea sat on the edge of the bookshelves several weeks later.

“Five,” Jon said, as they got close to the three-minute mark. M tensed, ready to move. “Four. Three. Two. Now!”

M launched forward, snatching the teabag from the chipped mug and swinging it into the trashbag they’d hung off one of the hooks on the wall. Jon followed on his heels, grabbing the thermos of milk and measuring out a careful two tablespoons to mix in. As he was adding the second one, M reached around his shoulder to pour in a generous teaspoon-and-a-half of sugar.

Jon’s grandmother had raised a curious eyebrow at him when he asked to borrow her old set of measuring spoons, but thankfully she hadn’t said no.

He finished off the mixture with a careful twirl of a spoon to blend it all together, then raised the finished product delicately in his hands and presented it to M.

“You have the honors of first sip today,” he said solemnly. M bowed his head and took the mug reverentially.

He wafted a hand over the top, sniffing deeply at the steam. “Nice aroma,” he said. “Very leafy. Very hot.”

Jon bit back a giggle.

M took a sip, closing his eyes and swishing the tea around his mouth. “Coats the palate well,” he said once he’d swallowed. “Good temperature, warming without burning. Strong hints of watery milk in there, with an aftertaste of lawn clippings.” He opened his eyes, nodded. “Solid six out of ten.”

Jon laughed, scribbling down the rating in his notebook next to the measurements they’d used.

“And now ‘tis your turn, good sir,” M said, passing him the mug.

Jon handed him the notebook and pencil in turn. “Much obliged.” He followed the same procedure, sniffing at the tea. “It has a sharp bouquet,” he declared. “It hints at bitterness in the actual brew, but I must retain an open mind.” He took a cautious sip, then spun for the open window with a perfect spit-take.

M burst out laughing as the fine spray of tea misted out the window, and Jon had to fight against the smug grin that rose in response. He’d been working on that one for weeks now.

“Absolute garbage,” he declared, plunking the mug back down on the shelf. “In my esteemed opinion, that drink is not fit to be consumed by man nor beast.”

“Thank you very much for the judgement, Professor Know-It-All,” M giggled. “Very useful rating.”

“You’re welcome, respected colleague,” Jon said, throwing his shoulders back and trying to look dignified. Then he relaxed, and took another sip of the tea. “Okay, in all honesty though, five out of ten. Drinkable, but it doesn’t taste  _ good.” _

“Got it.” M jotted down the rating and set the notebook aside. “Good enough to finish?”

Jon shrugged. “Might as well.”

They left the cooling kettle and tea supplies on the bookshelf, moving the mug over to the table where their schoolbooks sat. Jon doubled back to close the window, then settled down next to M as they started in on their homework. They passed the mug back and forth between them as they studied, sharing the tea until it was gone.


	12. Carving

Jon slithered through the gap in the branches, keeping his head ducked low to avoid catching himself on any of the new growth that had started to intrude upon the tunnel. The days had finally turned warm enough to allow them back into their original hideout, and Jon was forging the path for them, with M following behind.

He reached the spot under the bushes and sat up, brushing leaves out of his hair. “Ready for pillows!” he called.

A moment later, there was a rustling from the bushes. He stuck an arm back into the gap, searching blindly for the feeling of fabric and pulling on it when he found it. One pillow slid through; he placed it on M’s side of the hideout and reached back for the other.

“I’m coming through now!” M called, once both pillows were settled in place.

“Yeah, hurry up!” Jon called back.

More rustling from the bushes; a few exclamations of discomfort: M seemed to be having some trouble.

“Alright there?” Jon asked, peering into the gap to see if M was close yet.

“Yeah,” he grunted back. “Just a little- little tight.” The bushes shook as he wriggled into view, face locked in a grimace. “I’m almost-  _ shit!” _

The last cry came as he lunged forward, trying to drag himself the rest of the way through the tunnel. A branch caught on the belt loop of his jeans, nearly tugging them off and  _ completely  _ halting his progress, half-in and half-out of the bushes.

Jon froze. M clapped a hand over his mouth.

_ “M,”  _ Jon said, scandalized and more than a little impressed. “Did you just  _ swear?” _

_ “Shhh!”  _ M said, looking mortified. “I didn’t mean to!”

“But you  _ did.”  _ Jon crawled over, pulling free the branch that had caught M’s jeans, and helped him the rest of the way into the hideout. He flumped onto his pillow, ducking his head a bit to avoid the branches trying to catch at his hair.

“All the kids at school are doing it,” he defended, as soon as Jon sat down as well.

_ “Are  _ they?” Jon asked, intrigued. No one in his year was swearing yet. “The teachers  _ let  _ them?”

“Well, no,” M said, hunching his shoulders. “They’ll tell you off if they hear you. But when they’re not around…”

“Awesome,” Jon said, grinning. “Do it again.”

M looked at him in shock.  _ “What?” _

“Do it again,” Jon prompted.

_ “J,”  _ M gasped.  _ “No!  _ What if someone hears?”

Jon made an exaggerated show of looking around. “No one’s here but us.”

“But…”

“Come on,” Jon wheedled. “Please?”

M bit his lip, looking conflicted. He glanced around too, then leaned in toward Jon and whispered:  _ “Damn.” _

Jon whooped, clapping his hands in delight.

M made shushing motions, though he was starting to grin as well. “Well, come on,” he said, nudging Jon on the shoulder. “Your turn.”

Jon froze. “No.”

“Yes.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Do it.”

Jon took a deep breath, heart racing in illicit excitement.  _ “Shit.” _ He clapped a hand over his own mouth, giggling. M cheered.

“See? It’s fun!”

Jon dropped his hand, feeling daring. “Damn it!” he said.

“Oh, hell!” M echoed.

“Ass!”

“Son of a bitch!”

“Fuck!”

_ "J!"  _ M squeaked, looking shocked.

"What?"

“That one’s… well, that one’s…”

“Yeah?” Jon grinned.

_ “No one’s  _ using the F-word,” he said, sounding deeply awed.

Jon just grinned more, poking him in the side. "Well? Go on then."

M gasped. “I couldn’t.”

“Fuck,” Jon said again. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

M leaned forward, clapping a hand over Jon’s mouth to muffle him.  _ “Shhh!  _ Oh my god, J, what if someone walks by?”

Jon pushed his hand away. “They won’t be able to hear us from the road. Fuck!”

M tried to cover his mouth again, giggling. “J!”

“Fuck! I’ll stop saying it if you say it! Fuck!”

“Fuck!” M said, and looked shocked at himself.

“Yes!” Jon cheered.

“Fuck,” M said again, then: “I can’t fucking believe I said that.”

Jon lost it, keeling over with laughter. “You sure fucking did,” he managed to choke out.

M snorted, finally leaning back from where their heads had been conspiratorially bent together, and immediately getting his hair snagged in the bushes again. “Ow!”

Jon held up a finger, forcing a stern expressing through his giggles. “Now, M, what do we say?”

_ “Fuck!”  _ M said, with feeling, and Jon lost it again.

M grinned at him, digging in his pocket and pulling out a small penknife. He lifted it to the branch that was lodged in his hair, hacking at the wood to try and free himself. Jon sat up, laughter finally fading away, and raised his eyebrows.

“You have a knife?”

“Oh, yeah!” M said, holding it out for a moment so Jon could see before getting back to work on the branch. It was plain and practical, with a very sharp blade. “My grandfather got it for me before he died, he said every boy should have one. Mum wasn't too happy about that, but she could never win in an argument with my grandfather, so I got to keep it." The branch broke off, and M set the knife on the ground so he could untangle the snapped end of it from his hair. “I thought I’d lost it in the move, but it had just gotten mixed in with my winter clothes.”

Jon picked the knife up, opening and closing the blade as he examined it. The handle was wooden, and there was a small letter  _ M  _ engraved near the base of it. It gave him an idea.

“Hey, M,” he said, looking up. “We should carve our names on the shed.”

M’s eyebrows rose. “Like, here?” He tapped the wall behind himself.

“Yeah!” Jon said, passing the knife to him. “Like people do on trees. ‘J and M were here,’ or something.”

“Okay,” M sounded dubious about it, but he started to turn around anyway, shuffling on the pillow so he could face the wall. “Oh, damn…” he said after a moment.

“Hold on.” There was another branch stuck in M’s hair. Jon pulled it free. “Okay, you’re good.”

“Good.” M finished turning around, and opened the knife. He paused with the tip of the blade pressing into the old, soft wood. “J? I’m not sure if I’ll be able to fit down here much longer.”

“You  _ are  _ getting a bit tall,” Jon conceded. It was true: M had grown several inches over the winter. He needed to duck down constantly to avoid getting his hair caught on the branches, and even though it was doable, it didn’t look comfortable. “Well… we can move back to the shed.”

“Are you sure?” M glanced at him over his shoulder. “I know this is your spot. I don’t want to- I don’t want you to be displaced because of me.”

Jon shrugged. He did feel sad at the idea of leaving the bushes. They had been his hideout and his sanctuary for many long summers. But… “Yeah, this is my spot,” he said. “But the shed is  _ our _ spot. It’s where all our stuff is, anyway.”

M smiled, looking hopeful. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” Jon said, and he meant it. “All the more reason to leave our mark now though, yeah?”

“Yeah.” M nodded, and turned back to the wall. He pressed down firmly with the knife, scoring deep lines into the wood as he carved their initials:

**J+M**

And around the letters, enclosing them and keeping them together, he carved a heart.


	13. Lunch

“Hey, Jon?” Martin paused in the doorway of his office, one hand resting against the frame as he half-turned back into the room.

Jon quickly swallowed the sip of tea he had just taken, coughing a little as it burned down his throat. “Ah- um, yes?” Martin didn’t usually hang around after dropping off Jon’s tea; whatever this was, it was probably important.

Martin bit his lip, fidgeting where he stood. “I was, um, wondering. We- I know you usually just grab something from the canteen for lunch, but I was wondering if you wanted to go out today? The rain’s finally let up and it’d probably be good to get some fresh air…”

“Oh.” Jon blinked. He was aware, in a peripheral sense, that Martin had a habit of asking Tim or Sasha or both out to lunch with him, at least once a week, as a chance to bond outside of work. He’d offered the same invitation to Jon in the first month or so after they’d moved to the Archives, but the invitations had stopped as Jon continued to turn him down. It had occurred to him later that those refusals had probably contributed to the impression that Jon hated him, rather than a simple practical assessment that it was more productive to stay in the building for lunch. It  _ hadn’t  _ occurred to him that the invitations might begin again now that they were on better terms.

The idea that Martin was willing to give him a second chance made him feel very warm inside.

“Y-yes,” he said, wondering why he suddenly felt so nervous. “I would- I mean, that sounds nice. What, uh, what did you have in mind?”

Martin’s face brightened, and he turned around fully to face Jon. “Well, I usually eat at around half past noon, and there’s this little café a few blocks away I think you might like? I’ve been there with Sasha before and it’s pretty nice.”

“I, uh, I think I’ve seen it,” Jon said. “That- yeah, that would be great! I’ll, um, see you at half past noon, then?”

“Great!” Martin said, beaming. “I’ll stop by then to check if you’re ready.” He turned out the door, and Jon could have sworn there was a bounce in his step as he walked away.

Jon bit back a smile of his own, then realized there was no one around to see and allowed himself the luxury of a giddy grin. He wasn’t sure why he was so excited at the idea of grabbing lunch with Martin, but there was a nervous energy to his movements as he turned back to his computer and started tapping at the keys.

Twelve-thirty couldn’t get here soon enough.

~~~~~

Twelve-thirty arrived sooner than expected.

Martin gave a light tap on his door before pushing it open, and Jon glanced up in surprise.

“Martin! Is it-” One look at the clock confirmed. “Ah. Sorry, I lost track of time, just give me a moment.”

“Sure thing.” Martin shoved his hands in his pockets, staring fixedly at anything that wasn’t Jon. Jon hurriedly turned back to his computer, quickly adding a note to the document he had been working on to remind him of his place and saving it.

“The bug I was having seems to have finally resolved itself,” he explained as he closed the lid of the laptop and stood to grab his jacket. “I’ve been organizing the backlog of recordings and making sure they’re properly filed in our digital system.”

“Oh, that’s great!” Martin said, gesturing for Jon to lead the way out the door. “Should be smooth sailing going forward, then?”

“Hopefully,” Jon said, and then couldn’t think of anything else to add and fell silent. Martin seemed to not have any ideas either, and they continued walking in an awkward silence as they made their way along the hallway toward the stairs.

Tim and Sasha were just coming down the stairs as they reached them.

“Hey guys,” Sasha said, waving and smiling. “You picked a good day to head out, the weather’s great.”

“That’s what I was thinking!” Martin beamed, and Jon was about to ask where Tim and Sasha had gone for lunch when Tim snapped his fingers and pointed at his own eyes.

“Bit sunny out, boss,” he said, and Jon groaned.

“Shit.”

Both Sasha and Martin turned to look at him in surprise, but Tim just laughed.

“Thought so. Here, you can borrow mine.” He fished a pair of sunglasses out of the front pocket of his shirt and passed them over. They were rather too big for Jon’s face, but he still took them gratefully.

“Thank you, Tim. I’ll get them back to you later.”

“No problem,” he shrugged, already moving to pull Sasha along the hallway after him and clear the stairs for Jon and Martin to leave. “Have fun!”

“Thanks!” Martin called after him, and then frowned at Jon as they started up the stairs. “What was that about?”

Jon rubbed his thumb along one of the arms of the glasses absently and sighed. “I left my own sunglasses at home this morning, what with all the rain recently. I didn’t think I’d need them.”

Martin just gave him a confused look.

Jon backtracked his explanation. “I have photophobia. Direct sunlight will give me headaches if I’m exposed to it for too long, so I generally bring sunglasses if I know I’m going to be outside for an extended period of time.” They were almost to the front doors of the building, now, so he slipped the glasses on, blinking to adjust to the slight yellow tinge they gave his vision.

“Oh!” Martin said, understanding filling his eyes. “Yeah, that makes sense. Good thing Tim had a pair on him.”

Jon laughed. “Yeah. I think he always keeps an extra pair in his desk, just in case. Back in Research we nearly had to abandon a case because I got such a bad migraine from the sunlight.” Jon had had to explain his light sensitivity to Tim, and had been annoyed that Tim was more worried about his wellbeing than continuing the investigation. It had been an interesting day.

“No, really?” Martin said, eyes alight with the promise of a good story. “What was the case?”

The conversation carried them through the walk to the café, ordering, finding a table, and sitting down. When it finally trailed off it left a companionable silence in its wake, all the awkwardness from before long gone.

The silence was broken by Martin making a soft  _ aww  _ sound, eyes cast somewhere over Jon’s shoulder and expression tinged with something between fondness and longing. Jon looked around to see what he’d been watching.

A few tables over a woman was holding out a bunch of red roses to her partner. From the partner’s reaction, the flowers had been a sudden and welcome surprise. The two leaned over the small table toward each other, and Jon looked away before they kissed.

“Quite romantic,” he said, raising an eyebrow at Martin as Martin’s own gaze returned to Jon.

“Very much so,” Martin said, with a note of wistfulness to his voice. “I’ve always liked roses.”

“Me too.” Jon smiled, certain that his own tone was steeped in nostalgia. “Though I prefer white roses, myself.”

“Really?” The distant look disappeared from Martin’s eyes, and he smiled at Jon. “Me too! I know they’re, like, traditionally a wedding thing, but I love the contrast of the white against the dark green leaves.”

Jon nodded, electing not to mention that his own preference stemmed more from history than aesthetic appeal. Mentioning that he’d spent several years of his childhood hiding in bushes to avoid people would probably take the conversation in a direction he didn’t want it to go. “People do them a disservice by only displaying them when the entire color scheme is white. They stand out quite beautifully against almost any other color, yet people choose to just let them blend into a monochrome background.”

Martin’s eyebrows shot up. “Jonathan Sims, are you secretly an interior designer and you haven’t bothered to tell any of us? For  _ shame, _ the Archives could use your skills!”

Jon couldn’t help it; he burst out laughing, loud enough to draw looks from the surrounding tables. This wasn’t the first time he’d had a non-work-related conversation with Martin, but it  _ was  _ the first time they’d spoken outside of a workplace setting. He was pleasantly surprised by just how much he was enjoying himself.

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t  _ dare,”  _ he said, as soon as he had breath to say it. “A once in a lifetime wedding event that’ll make or break the families’ acceptance of the happy couple is one thing, but trying to redo that dingy old basement is  _ far  _ too much pressure.”

Martin snorted. “Oh, I’m sure you could work wonders with the, uh… dust. And splintered wood.”

Jon hummed. “You’d have to sweep every room for spiders before I started, I don’t even want to think about how many are probably hiding among all those old file boxes.”

“Oh, actually,” Martin’s eyes lit up. “Spiders can be quite helpful in an archive or library. They eat a lot of mites and things that would damage the paper and…” he trailed off at Jon’s pained look. “...And that’s probably not something I should be telling our resident arachnophobe.”

“At least not over lunch, please,” Jon said, still grimacing.

“I’ll stop,” Martin chuckled. “What’s a good neutral subject to take your mind off it? Oh, I know: what’s your favorite color?”

Though Jon laughed, Martin persisted with the stereotypical ‘getting to know you’ questions for the rest of lunch, and it actually turned into quite an interesting conversation as they discovered they had read and enjoyed many of the same books. When they eventually made their way back to the Archives spiders had been long forgotten, and Jon paused in the door of his office before returning to work.

“This was fun,” he said, smiling at Martin. “Thank you for inviting me out. You were right, it did me good to get out of the building for a while.”

Martin smiled back. “Thanks for coming. Would you… want to do it again sometime?”

“I would,” Jon said, and wasn’t sure why the idea made him feel so breathless.

“Good.” Martin nodded once, and turned to walk the rest of the way toward the assistants’ office. Jon stared after him for longer than was perhaps appropriate, a soft smile still fixed on his face, before turning into his own office to get on with the day.

Five minutes later he cursed, dropping the statement he had been about to record, and hurried over to the assistants’ office himself to return Tim’s sunglasses.


End file.
